


One Breath

by Kerosene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Kink Meme, NSFW, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerosene/pseuds/Kerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill, directly after the end of ep 7. </p><p>Pure, unashamed porn. And then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A quick and wholly unbeta'd kinkmeme prompt response.

_Say it again._

_I admire and respect you—-_

_Not that part, you idiot._

_I love you._

One breath, two, and their lips meet, d'Artagnan pushing her back against the table, hands pulling at laces, dropping guns and swords, breathlessly fighting to get closer to each other. 

Constance felt overwhelmed, like she was on fire, could think of nothing but the feel of d'Artagnan's hands on her body, his lips on her mouth. Pushing, she shoved him against the armoire, pulling off his jacket to fall discarded on the floor. Pressing against him, pinning him down, she bit lightly at his lip, gasped as he kissed her neck, the sensation sending shivers up her spine. His lips are soft, for all she can feel his swordsman's calluses as he grips her arm and winds his other hand into her hair, holding her tight against him. 

She writhes, breathless, and he flips them around, pressing her against the armoire with his body, one hand bracing himself against the heavily carved wood, the other running over her body, her breast, cupping her neck, stroking her cheek. There's no words between them, just gasps, breathless noises of desire and longing, and she's no idea how long they stay like that, lost in each other, nothing more than touch and scent and sound. 

Constance feels d'Artagnan gather himself, forcibly sucking in a deep breath and stepping back to look Constance in the eye. His breath is laboured, his lips bee-stung, and a look in his eye suggests that it's taking all of his self-control not to start kissing her again.

"May I?" He asks, voice strained but steady, a half-smile on his beautiful, beautiful face. He kneels before her, hand on the hem of her skirt, hope in his eyes. 

It's an effort of will, but she manages to find the wherewithal to nod, and then, because it seems important to actually vocalise this, says "yes", in a voice more than a little hazy with lust. She's not sure she's ever felt this way before, certainly not with another person, and though she's not certain what he's planing, she trusts him. 

The look of joy on his face is something to behold, and had she not already been in love with him, would have fallen instantly for him then. He manoeuvres her back to the table, perches her on the edge, and rucks her skirts up to her thighs, unlaces her braes. He kisses the delicate skin behind her knee, and it would tickle if it weren't so unspeakably erotic. He keeps going, kissing, nipping up her thigh, and goosebumps explode across her skin as she realises his intentions. 

His breath tickles at the juncture of her thighs, feeling like a tease, feather-light. But then, he slides his hands up to her hips, presses his mouth to her and nothing feels like a tease any more. That first press of his tongue, warm and wet, shocks her to her very core and her hands clench the edge of the table. He licks up, with just the right amount of pressure on her clit, and she gasps, rocks into him. 

His hands are just as busy, running over her hips, her thighs, her waist. They've somehow managed to loosen her corset enough that she's got room to freely breathe, but it's still a little in the way. Constance feels that perhaps she should keep still, not interrupt, let d'Artaganan get on with it at his own pace, but it feels so good that she can't help the little movements of her hips, the tremble in her thighs as she forces herself not to slide off the edge, or the way her hand seems to have come up and taken hold of his hair. That seems terribly rude, and she forces herself to let go - but d'Artaganan's own hand comes up and buries her fingers deep in his hair. She takes the hint, and uses the leverage he's given her to adjust his positioning, ever so slightly. 

She's not being quiet, but she realises, nor is he. He moans against her, deeply, and the vibrations make her shake. He follows that up with a particularly hard lick, and she clutches at him, fingers pulling his hair, thighs squeezing against his ears. He moans again, louder, and the trembling begins to spread outwards. She can hear, feel, that he's getting breathless, but he doesn't stop. One more hard flick, and she's coming, barely able to breathe out a warning before she does so. Her jaw snaps shut and her back arches, toes curl. Everything in her goes taut for a single perfect moment, before the release.

He doesn't stop, guiding her though it, supporting her as she goes boneless, sliding to the floor and into his arms. He hugs her tightly as their breathing slows, calms. The entire bottom half of his face is slick, and his smile is so broad, so open, she feels herself falling for him all over again. 

"Bed?" She asks, not trusting herself to form longer sentences, but not willing to let go of this yet. She feels like a cat with its head in a bucketful of cream. This will all need paying for, in one was or another, but right now, she can't find it in her to care. 

"Bed." He responds.


	2. Chapter 2

Kissing, laughing, his hands are everywhere on her as they make their way to his room. Constance can taste herself on his lips, and it's a peculiar, heady notion. 

It's a dark room, and the mattress is thin, with the straw starting to poke through. It's perhaps not the most romantic location for an assignation, but well, the alternative is her marital bed, and she's not willing to consider that. It perhaps doesn't help that her mind is everywhere and nowhere - irretrievably fixed on d'Artagnan, his smile, his wandering hands and wandering lips, while also looking for any distraction that could allow something like plausible deniability. D'Artagnan's lips are kissing up her neck, a sensation like silk dancing on the edge of her nerves, and part of her mind is pricing up replacement palliasses. 

Constance makes up her mind. She chooses here, now, _this._

Hand to the back of his neck, Constance drags d'Artagnan's mouth to meet hers, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed. Gathering her skirts, she can kneel above him, keep kissing as his wonderfully talented hands work feverishly to remove her corset fully, to loosen the fastenings of her skirts. They break, briefly, to pull off her chemise and his shirt. Skin to skin feels wonderful, fire coruscating across her nerves, and she can feel d'Artagnan straining at his breeches even as he wraps his arms around her, holds her close, head buried in the crook of her neck as he breathes deeply, gasping after control. Constance doesn't give him the opportunity. Lacing the fingers of one hand in his hair, she rocks her hips against his, grinding down. The noise he makes is unearthly, full of lust and desperate need. 

Constance snakes her other hand down between their bodies to undo his breeches, dancing her fingers over his stomach muscles as she does so. There's no way to get out of their clothes in their current position, and so it's the work of an extremely inelegant moment for her to shimmy out of her skirts while d'Artagnan removes his own clothes as quickly as he is able. Satisfied, Constance pushes d'Artagnan back down on the bed, and his head hits the pillow as she swings her leg back across him. Leaning down, she kisses him fully on the lips, and the look of love, of adoration in his eyes is almost more than she can stand. The light in his eyes brightens the whole room. 

Her hips rise, almost unbidden, and with one hand resting on d'Artagnan's shoulder, pinning him down, she uses the other to fit him to her. He's generously proportioned, and she has to bite her lip at the gloriously wonderful sensation as he fills her. For his own part, d'Artagnan arches up, seemingly ignoring her pinning hand on his shoulder, his splayed fingers on her waist, her back, roaming wildly as she starts to rock her hips. 

He makes the best noises, gasping, keening, groaning, as she sits up straight, speeds up, fucking him deeper and harder with every moment. It's good, but not perfect, the angle isn't quite right to get her her off again until she repositions one of his hands, his thumb at her apex, and _there_. At the same time, he pulls her back down toward him, and captures a nipple between his lips, sucking at it briefly. It's electrifying, a line of fire running through her core down to the tips of her toes, and she gasps, biting her lip to keep from crying out. D'Artagnan's hips are bucking against her, and the combination of hands, mouth, hips, feels like nothing she's ever felt before. Unscrewing her eyes, Constance can see sweat beading on his skin, and intense concentration wrinkling his brow, at the very limits of his self-control. Constance pushes herself back upright, and it's perhaps this movement that doesn't so much as push but throw d'Artagnan off his own cliff edge. His head snapped back, face beautifully contorted as he cries out, Constance can feel him pulse inside her, and it's that more than anything that sends her falling after him, the world narrowing to a pinpoint of light and heat as she screams wordlessly with him. 

It's an indeterminate amount of time later when she surfaces from a world of black velvet sensation to find herself wrapped up in his arms as their breathing slowly returns to something approaching normal. The room smells of leather and musk, and she feels heavy, satiated and alive. They lie together in a comfortable silence, wrapped up in one another. 

"Stay with me?" It's d'Artagnan who breaks the silence with a curiously vulnerable tone to his voice "it's just, I..."

She can't stay, not for very long. There is housework to be done, not least picking up in the other room before it, and they, are discovered. But for the moment, she feels safe, warm, loved, and can't bear the thought of leaving this happy cocoon. Constance fishes the blanket from where it had fallen and drapes it over them, settling herself with her back to his chest. D'Artagnan snakes an arm over her waist and holds her close, and it's with a sense of perfect contentment that she drifts off to sleep in his arms.


End file.
